Words Are The Physicians Of A Mind Diseased
by volley
Summary: Talking versus silence while time for Trip and Malcolm is trickling out, perhaps for good.
1. Chapter 1

A story set in the earlier days of Enterprise's mission; I'd say late Season One.

Grateful thanks to my beta reader RoaringMice.

§ 1 §

"What d'ya miss?"

Trip cast a glance across the decon chamber to the bench on the other side, and the man stretched out on it. His mouth had caught up with his wandering mind and blurted the question out without grounding it into a context. But Malcolm and he had been in silence, each laying flat on a bench, for a long time – too long for this ebullient Southerner. His thoughts had found an outlet in that vague rambling.

"From Earth," Trip now clarified to the owner of the puzzled grey eyes which had turned to him. "Is there anythin' you really miss from Earth?"

"Why?" Malcolm asked quietly, returning his gaze to the ceiling; then – whether aware or not of how telling the gesture was – hiding his face behind a bent arm.

Trip rolled his eyes. "Why what? Why am I askin' ya, or why do I think there might be somethin' you miss?"

The dismissing huff that floated his way was already a partial reply. It was followed by a single word, the punch of which was like the slamming of a door – shutting you out, of course.

"Both."

Trip could not believe Malcolm could be so detached, so unemotional about what he had left behind; that there would be no person, no place which made his heart clench with wistfulness when he thought of them. But of course it was much more likely that the man simply didn't want to share. He shot another glance to his friend, but the arm was still in place, and the glance was lost on him. Well, Trip wasn't going to be discouraged so easily.

"Come on, Malcolm, there's got to be _somethin'_ you miss!"

Disbelief and frustration sent his voice up, along with shooting a wonderful spike of pain through his skull. He hissed and grimaced, which earned him another glance from the aloof man across. It contained a hint of concern – well, they were in the same boat, literally and metaphorically: whatever happened to one would, presumably, also happen to the other.

Damned alien planets with their alien microbes! And things always seemed to happen to _them_. No wonder the crew called them the Disaster Twins. No one else had picked up anything more than a cold bug in months. Malcolm and he, on the other hand, had spent two hours on a planet and now risked spending God knew how much time in quarantine. Their balance was all but gone and if the shiver that had just travelled down his spine was anything to go by, they were also about to develop a temperature.

"Are you all right?" Malcolm asked, grey eyes now boring into him.

Trip felt an incongruous desire to giggle, but curbed it; it might trigger not only another stab of pain, but also a few suspicions about his sanity. He settled for drawling out sarcastically, "Ya've gotta be kiddin'. I can't keep myself upright; I've got the shivers; and if I speak too loud my head hurts. How's that for bein' alright?"

"Not bad," Malcolm replied in a dark voice.

Gingerly, Trip rolled on his side and studied his friend. It was always difficult to understand what the man felt, what went on in that complicated mind of his. But all the more so when something was troubling him, or when he was not well; that's when Lieutenant Reed would divert all energy to his personal shields, so that his weakened core would be well-hidden and protected. Time to send a photon torpedo to try and pierce them.

"How about you, what are your symptoms?" he asked directly.

"Trip, what's wrong with a bit of silence?" Malcolm immediately non-answered, snappily, eyes back on the ceiling. "A moment ago the thought actually crossed my mind that you had begun to appreciate it. A false hope, it turns out."

"Yeah, absolutely. I don't like silence; never have. We'll have plenty of it in the grave."

Malcolm shot him another, slightly more concerned look. "I trust Phlox will find a way to put us back on our feet."

Trip could hear a hint of doubt lurk behind the dryness of his explosive consonants. "Come on, ya know I didn't mean that," he said deadpan.

Undeterred, Malcolm muttered, "In any case, unlike you, I happen to like silence. So if you don't mind…"

So silence it was, once again. To please Lieutenant Reed.

The boring lack of interaction lasted, in fact, only a few minutes. It was Phlox who came to the rescue; but Trip's budding relief turned sour when he saw the frown on the Doctor's usually jolly face, on the other side of the access hatch's glass.

"Commander, Lieutenant. I'll need another blood sample, if you please." Phlox said in his professional voice. He placed two hypo syringes in the pass-through and slid it closed.

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. This must be – what – the fifth blood sample they had been asked to give. "What's the problem, Doc?" he enquired, failing to produce the light tone he had aimed at. "Any more samples and we won't have to worry about this bug any more, we'll be bled dry."

A pale and mirthless smile appeared on the Denobulan's face. "Commander, kindly get the syringes and do as I ask."

Trip gingerly pushed to a sitting position, knowing the room would start to spin. "Isn't there anythin' you can give us to restore our balance?" he very nearly whined, putting two fingers over his eyes and anchoring himself to the wall with his other hand.

"I'm working on it, Commander," Phlox replied in what sounded like a slightly over-protective tone.

Not good.

With a deep breath, Trip slowly pushed to his feet. Then, holding on to anything that would help him keep upright, he shuffled to retrieve the syringes. He almost startled when Malcolm appeared beside him, staggering too. Damn, the man could be stealthy even when barely able to stand. But he was grateful for his effort. He wasn't sure he wanted to walk the distance between their benches and the access hatch more times than strictly necessary.

When they were done, Phlox gave them both a long, covertly assessing look. "I will get back to you as soon as T'Pol and I manage to make some leeway contrasting this virus," he said rather vaguely. "In the meantime, try to rest."

Trip grimaced. "That all? Arent'ya gonna tell us if we'll live?"

It was some kind of a joke – or so he told himself; in any case, something meant to trigger one of Phlox's obnoxious smiles and an 'Of course you'll live, Commander!' But the Doctor's face, instead, remained straight as he said, "This virus is very aggressive; potentially lethal. We haven't found a way to counter it or slow it down yet." Probably seeing the dismay that Trip knew had appeared on his face, he added, "There are some things we can still try, and we won't give up, rest assured."

With a slight nod, Phlox left, leaving them in a much heavier silence than the one he'd found them in.

TBC

Love to hear your comments!


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

"Brilliant," Malcolm muttered after a long moment. His face was pale and taut. He staggered back to his bench and dropped down on it wincing slightly.

Trip watched him settle down, before making his own careful way to his place.

It was only a few minutes since they had been lying exactly like this, across from each other; yet it seemed like a whole lot of time had passed, or that they were not the same persons as before. Before they had been just sick; now they were dangerously perched on top of the abyss, aware of its shuddering presence and that they might have to take the big jump into it.

Trip felt strangely numb, almost unable to wrap his mind around the idea that in a matter of minutes such heavy clouds could have gathered on the horizon of his life; and that in a matter of hours he may be...

Dammit! To hell with Malcolm's likes and dislikes: he had no intention of spending what might be his last hours in grim silence, of feeling dead before time.

"I miss the sounds," he said resolutely, in fact almost challengingly. He cast a wary glance to the other side. Malcolm's eyes were closed. When no response came, he went on, "On Enterprise there is the hum of the warp engine, which is so constant that ya almost don't hear it any more – except maybe when something is wrong; but on Earth… I'm not only talkin' about birds chirpin', or the sound of the sea an' all that." He paused for a beat. "I dunno, a door banging in the wind, or the noise of traffic, or… a baby cryin'. Whatever. There are so many different sounds, on Earth, which we don't have here. You get to miss them after a while." He bit his lip and dared, "I guess you don't, if you're so fond of silence."

"One does not necessarily exclude the other," Malcolm replied quietly.

There was no irritation in his voice; Phlox's news – it seemed – had made a difference. There were bigger worries now than shutting him up. Quite unexpectedly, though, Malcolm went on, offering a few thoughts of his own.

"Silence can be precious," he said, blinking his eyes open, though they remained fixed on the ceiling. "I doubt many of the great discoveries, great works of literature, or great flashes of inspiration would have been accomplished in noise. But I'll grant you that there is nothing like a sound to re-create a memory, bring one back to a spot or time. Thus I can well believe that you could miss Earth's sounds."

"But do you miss anythin'?" Trip insisted, encouraged by this unexpected spurt of loquaciousness. He had a sudden urge to lay bare his friend's well-hidden feelings; rip the layers of protective reticence open and expose the throbbing heart he knew he'd find underneath. Hell, if these turned out to be their last hours, he wanted to spend them sharing something meaningful.

The pause lasted long enough for Trip to hold his breath. But the words that followed allowed him to release it.

"If you really must know, I miss the clap of thunder and a good downpour," Malcolm admitted, darting him a cautious look. "Ever since I was a child I've been fascinated by storms, found them awe-inspiring," he expounded. "All that energy, the unleashing of nature's force... It's a wonderful, if terrifying sight. One that has always given me that shot of fright and exhilaration that I hate and love at the same time. I suppose it's the same feeling I get in situations of danger."

That was interesting. Worryingly revealing, in fact. "You actually _like_ being in dangerous situations?" Trip asked, intrigued and troubled at the idea.

There was a pause.

"Not quite," Malcolm unhurriedly replied. "Although I won't deny that danger holds a measure of excitement that is irrefutably attractive. Like a void: if you look long enough into it, against all reason you almost feel like taking the plunge."

"Is that why you chose your profession? To get that shot of adrenaline?"

Malcolm let out a soft huff. "Could be," he murmured. "One of the reasons. Certainly not the main one."

Trip shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position – an impossible feat. The benches in decon were even harder than the bio beds. He wondered whether Malcolm's butt was totally insensitive; the man was so damn still. "You know, I think the database might contain the recording of a thunderstorm," he said. "Come to think of it, it might contain the recording of quite a few other sounds."

Malcolm let out another, this time dismissive, huff. "It wouldn't be the same thing as being there, standing face up under the pouring water, with your dripping clothes clinging to you, feeling the wind threatening to sweep you away, seeing the lightning split the sky, waiting for the clap of thunder that follows, wondering if the next burst of energy will not incinerate you."

It was a good thing the man had his gaze on the ceiling; for if Trip, as a Floridian, had initially enjoyed the recollection of something he knew very well, his eyes had grown wider with every word and he was now looking at Malcolm as he would a lunatic. "You're not tellin' me that that's what you normally do, in a thunderstorm, are ya?" he finally asked, uneasily.

There was an awkward pause. "I have on occasion, during a summer storm," Malcolm admitted quietly. Probably realising how that sounded, to justify himself he added, "It's a great feeling. Like when you wake up at night with a storm raging outside, rattling the windows, pelting the roof with a rhythmic hail."

He shivered visibly and hugged his shoulders, and Trip knew it wasn't because of the memory of standing dripping wet in a storm. "You ok?" he asked, already knowing the answer. But this time it wasn't the standard Lieutenant Reed reply.

"I believe I'm developing a fever."

Finally summoning the energy to do so, Trip pulled to a sitting position, scrunching his eyes closed for a moment before reaching to the foot of the bench and grabbing a couple of blankets from the pile that was there. He silently tossed one across to the other bench, and spread the second open as he lay back down. He had been getting a few shivers too.

"Every time I've been caught in a storm it's scared the hell out of me," he drawled, pulling his blanket close around his shoulders. "Once I was out campin' with friends, and we had pitched our tents near a river that swelled dangerously. Not an experience I'd care to repeat."

"Nature at its worst can make you feel very small. But that's part of the beauty of it."

Turning on his side, Malcolm burrowed into his own blanket, looking ready and willing to fall back into his beloved silence; so Trip racked his brain for another thread of conversation; anything to keep their voices filling the oppressing room, anything to keep at bay the disturbing thoughts his mind threatened to conjure up.

"What was the worst thing you had to do in your life?"

Malcolm's grey eyes narrowed under the slight frown that creased his brow. "What do you mean?" he enquired with a long-suffering sigh.

"Somethin' you really hated but you had to do."

A soft but mirthless laugh floated his way. "That's a difficult question to answer. I've had to do many things that I really didn't like."

The hard core of bitterness was all too apparent, re-awakening Trip's curiosity about his friend's past, that well-protected past before the moment Archer had chosen Malcolm to be Enterprise's Armoury and Security Officer. Trip didn't quite think the man hadn't known _any_ happiness; but had a feeling that happiness in Malcolm's early existence had been kind of like a very special cake, prepared on rare occasions and to be enjoyed in small portions. One thing he felt sure of was that on this ship Malcolm had found more happiness than he had on Earth.

"But actually they all boiled down to the same bloody thing," Malcolm went on dryly. "Having to pretend to be what I was not; having to step into clothes that didn't quite fit me. When you do it long enough, without knowing you end up growing into the model you're given to conform to, and then you start wondering who you really are, if something of your true self hasn't died in the process, and that is…" Meeting Trip's perplexed eyes, he faltered and tightened his lips before lowering his gaze.

Trip looked for something defusing to say, one of his carefree comments that could set a lighter mood, but his mind was a giddy void. How could anything with Malcolm go so deep? The worst things he himself could think of, which he had truly hated, were biology class in school or having to keep his quarters in perfect order during Starfleet Academy. Those suddenly sounded horribly insignificant, almost insulting in comparison to Malcolm's philosophical ramblings. He dearly hoped his friend wouldn't feel he had to reciprocate the question.

But instead the man darted him yet another glance, this one unreadable, and murmured flatly, and with the slightest hint of annoyance, "I'm sorry. Must be this virus. It's making me rather too chatty." He pulled his blanket up over his chin, hiding under it.

"Uh, no, it's ok," Trip stammered. "I like talking… Well, you know, I don't like silence…"

"Right..."

The awkward moment seemed never to end. Then Phlox appeared behind the glass again. Archer was beside him, and Trip knew immediately the news wasn't good. He pushed to a sitting position; out of the corner of the eye he saw Malcolm do the same.

A channel was opened.

"Trip, Malcolm..." Archer began.

"Let's hear it, Capt'n," Trip interrupted him, concern taking over. Immediately regretting his gruffness, he added more gently, "However bad it is, I think we'd rather you didn't beat around the bush." A glance at Malcolm confirmed that assumption, for the man was nodding quietly.

Phlox pulled his face into a taut smirk. "We are running out of time," he said without preamble. "This virus is even more aggressive than it seemed, and we can't wait very much longer." His face darkened. "I have figured out a way to kill it; but the cure could end up being rather... hard on the patient as well. Still, at the moment it's our best chance. I want to inject one of you with it, and if it works I can develop a less risky _vaccine_, so to speak, for the other one."

That sounded pretty desperate. No to mention dangerous. Trip opened his mouth to say so, but Malcolm anticipated him.

"How _hard_?"

Even before Phlox's reply the answer was written all over Archer's face.

"There is a fifty percent chance the treatment could be fatal," the Doctor said bluntly. "But if we wait, you will both be doomed. While we try the treatment on one of you and wait for the verdict, T'Pol and I will keep working on other possibilities. If the cure works, it will save both your lives; if it doesn't, one of you will still have a chance that we come up with some other option."

"You'll try it on me," Malcolm said without the blinking of a hesitation.

"Just hold on," Trip croaked out, finding his voice again. "You can't make this kind of decision, Lieutenant: I outrank you." He turned to Phlox. "You'll try it on me, Doc."

In Malcolm's pale face, shiny with perspiration, the grey eyes became mere slits. "I am more expendable than you are, Commander," he challenged doggedly. "And besides, I'm security."

"Security doesn't include actin' as a human guinea pig."

"It does if it means trying to keep other people safe."

"Capt'n..." Trip turned in frustration to the access hatch. Not that he was particularly eager to inject himself with a possibly fatal med, but Malcolm's impatience to play hero rubbed him the wrong way, for some reason. Absurdly enough, Malcolm had looked more worried when they were still uncertain of their fate than now that the Doctor had clearly spelled out their possible demise and made his virtually lethal proposition. Maybe Malcolm really got a kick out of risking his life. Trip realised that it was that thought which bothered him. Certainly the man seemed to enjoy donning the cloak of fearless warrior and jumping into action.

"God knows I wouldn't wish this on either of you," Archer said raucously. He turned to Phlox. "I'm afraid this is a decision best made by a Doctor."

Phlox pursed his lips for a brief moment. "Mister Reed," he then said quietly, "the shots you've been taking for some of your allergies actually make you the better choice. There is a chance they may act as an inhibitor of the treatment's bad effects without impairing its efficacy."

Malcolm's mouth tightened as he nodded a slow but almost satisfied assent. "Tell me what I have to do," he said.

"Very little."

Now that things had been decided, it was as if a film in slow motion had finally got up to speed. Trip watched Phlox show Malcolm a hypospray and place it in the pass-through. The Doctor's movements all of a sudden were fast and energetic, and he was talking in a tone that held quite a bit of urgency. Trip's mind, which had already been fuzzy, zoned out almost altogether, distracted by thoughts he could no longer keep at bay. He caught only words here and there – some of them, like 'high fever', 'nausea' and 'hallucinations', not very reassuring.

And then Malcolm was in his line of sight, stumbling forward. He opened the drawer, picked up the hypospray and looked at it for one long moment.

"Damn it, Malcolm…" It was all that Trip could think of saying. He watched his friend slowly turn around, raise the hypospray to his neck and, deep grey eyes locked on his, release either a cure or death into his bloodstream.

"Wish me – _us_ – luck, Commander," he murmured.

"Lie down, Lieutenant," Phlox said with gentle concern. "I'll be monitoring you both from sickbay."

Archer's green eyes were almost pained. Trip read in them the desire to say something reassuring, and the dismay caused by the fact that nothing could be found. "I will be back a little later," the Captain finally said, grimacing probably at the futility of the words.

While Trip's tongue was stuck to his palate, Malcolm, ever his proper self, croaked out, "Thank you, Sir." Then he made his wobbly way back to his bench.

TBC

I know what you're thinking, that I always put Mal through so much... can I be that evil? Grins wickedly. Comments are always welcome! ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for your comments. Hmm. You seem to think me incapable of doing real harm to a certain Lieutenant...

§ 3 §

The silence that fell after Phlox and Archer had left was outright oppressive. It weighed on Trip like a press, heavier with every turn of the clock's minute hand. It wasn't long at all before he felt he would go insane. He took a couple of deep breaths to control a sudden nonsensical desire to thrash about and scream, and immediately a bout of nausea assailed him. Pursing his lips, he grunted and wrapped his arms around his midsection.

"Trip?"

"Fine," Trip muttered through clenched teeth. "Just a bit nauseous."

There was no reply. When he thought he could do so without gagging, Trip turned onto his side. "So you get to play your favourite role," he spat out, managing a stinging sarcasm laced with resentment. "Hero."

Malcolm cast him a puzzled look. "That's what you get for having allergies, it seems," he commented warily, without picking up the gauntlet.

Trip gave himself a mental kick. He ought to be grateful, damn it. But there was that snaking and irrational feeling of… what the hell was it, anyway? He felt sort of provoked, or belittled, or amiss, or cowardly, or a bit of all of those. "Sorry," he said tightly. "Don't mind me. I'm…"

"Forget it," Malcolm quietly cut him off.

He seemed so calm, almost serene. The exact opposite of what Trip felt. If it weren't for the fact that he'd no doubt be banging into walls while probably throwing up, he would have considered pacing the small room with long and furious strides. How could Malcolm be laying there, eyes on the ceiling, as if nothing much were happening? As if he weren't waiting to know whether he'd see the next shift?

"I don't want to die," Trip blurted out tautly. He didn't care if he sounded scared. He was.

Malcolm cast him another glance. This one was longer and more intense. "You probably won't."

The words weren't charged with any special meaning; just plain acknowledgement that Trip stood a better chance to survive. Malcolm's face was slightly flushed now, and at the sight Trip's heart jumped into his throat. Its pounding made it difficult to speak, but he choked out angrily, "I don't want you to die either. I don't want either of us to die. We are too young, it's not fair. There is still so much we can do…"

"But there isn't much we can do about this," Malcolm said in a voice deep enough to cover any despair that might have been there. "Just hope for the best."

Sounds were getting distorted because of his nausea; or perhaps it was the other way round. Trip passed a hand over his brow and was surprised to find it wet with perspiration, and quite hot. His temperature had risen considerably, it seemed. There was a bitter taste in his mouth; he wanted to wash it out with a sip of water, but didn't dare move.

"Phlox got it wrong," he said weakly. "I am the one who's developing the nausea and high fever…"

Malcolm bit his lip. "Actually Phlox said those were the symptoms we'd be experiencing as the virus progressed," he said in a dark voice.

"Oh. Then _I_ got it wrong."

Even that small reply left him breathless. He had no energy to speak. Great. It looked like Malcolm would have his silence after all. Trip blinked his eyes closed, and immediately his mind erupted in a firework of nightmarish and frightening sounds. Ironic. Someone must be punishing him for disturbing Malcolm's quiet.

Time passed; impossible to tell how much.

His breathing became laboured, his nausea unbearable, and anguish began to choke him. This was it. His brain found a brief moment of clarity to wonder if Malcolm was still with him there, on that bench across from him. But he couldn't bring himself to look. Before he knew it, he had plunged into that chaotic disharmony again.

More time went by, and not very pleasantly.

When he next found a strand of semi-clear thinking it was to notice that the horribly deformed sounds had gotten louder. He wished he could do something to stifle them, or to clamp down on the terrible nausea: retch even, but get some relief from it. Moaning and thrashing seemed powerless to do anything against either of his torments.

"…Working on it, Commander… must not lose hope…"

Could that be Phlox? Trip couldn't tell; his perceptions were altered, and even this voice came to him as if through a filter that changed its traits. But it must be Phlox; Phlox saying they were working on a plan B. Then Malcolm… Tears unexpectedly stung behind his eyes. It wasn't fair. And it should have been him… him… He was the ranking…

More words. Soft, barely audible, but blessedly continuous; invading his burning mind like a flowing stream of cool water. Something to hold his focus and distract him from the harrowing sensations. Keep going… please keep going…

"… ship needs her Chief Engineer… Damn it, Trip…"

The Captain; yeah, this was the Captain. The Captain wouldn't leave him alone, would sit by his side. The Captain, who could talk till dawn, never tiring, never running dry. _Keep goin' Capt'n_.

"… well again… planet, rich in… away mission… investigate…"

The Captain! What did the man think he was doing? He'd get infected as well! Trip wanted to warn him, open his eyes, but only managed a grunt. He was so damn out of it.

"Easy… not alone… still…"

An EV suit. He must be wearing an EV suit. Phlox would have never let him in without one.

"… strong… can do it… need you…"

The Captain needed him. Needed him, damn it. He'd already lost his Armoury Officer. But what could he do, other than wait for his fate?

Drifting farther and closer along with Trip's level of consciousness, the Captain's voice never faltered, providing its continuous and droning comfort. Every time Trip lost hope of staying afloat, it threw him a lifeline and he'd grab it. A few times Trip lost it briefly, but it was always there when he recovered enough lucidity.

"… movie night… promise… Ah…"

The voice suddenly stopped, leaving a scary void that was immediately preyed upon by those hellish sounds. But then it was back.

"… hypospray… don't move…"

There was a cold object against his neck, and a hissing sound.

"… better… lie still… not long… Phlox says… hold on…"

Yes, he'd hold on, with his teeth and nails. _Don't stop, please Capt'n, keep goin'_. He dreaded those terrifying howls so unlike anything he'd ever heard, which threatened to drive him over the edge.

But the Captain's warm voice was still there, not far from his ear, his tone low and deformed but intense, emotion near the surface. The surface was there, Trip could see it in his mind's eye. He'd reach it sooner or later.

"… warp engine… expert touch… we've come to rely… Hess…"

Trip's breathing was a little easier; his nausea a touch better. He willed his eyes open, but once again they didn't respond. The sounds were now a discordant confusion slowly dying away, like an orchestra quietening for the conductor's entrance. Not the Captain's voice, though. It was still going, a bit hoarser, not much louder than an urgent whisper. Trip could not make out any of the words now, for sleep was summoning him and he was unavoidably slipping into it, into a blessedly peaceful unconsciousness.

With an act of sheer willpower, before abandoning himself to the much-coveted rest, he managed to mumble 'thanks, Capt'n'; he thought he heard a quiet 'don't mention it, Commander' in reply.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for following this and letting me know that you don't believe me capable of killing off Malcolm. Are you sure, though...? Well, you'll find out in this last chapter. ;-)

§ 4 §

Trip awoke slowly, feeling comfortably warm and relaxed. He stretched lazily under the blanket and for a moment didn't know where he was. But as soon as he opened his eyes his surroundings brought the memories back with shocking speed. He jerked his head up and before he could stop himself had turned to the side. The sight of other bench empty caused a lump to form in his throat.

"How are you feeling, Mister Tucker?"

Jerking back to the words, he saw Phlox coming through the door with Archer. Their faces were tired and lined, but a small smile was on both of them, painfully at odds with Trip's mournful heart.

"I'm…" _Fine_, he was going to say. But the word, in his mind, had a familiar if distinct accent, and stuck in his throat. He ended up murmuring, "Still alive."

Phlox had reached his side and was passing a medical scanner slowly over him. "I should think so," he commented softly, studying the readings. Shifting his blue gaze to Trip's eyes, he explained, "Your fever broke about eight hours ago, a couple of hours after you had fallen into a comfortable asleep. I took a blood sample not long ago and you'll be glad to know that there is no more trace of the virus. You will still feel a little tired, but I can assure you, you're as good as new." He turned to Archer, who hadn't said a word yet. "A day of rest and you'll have your Chief Engineer back, Captain. I'd say the Commander can go back on light duty tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doc," Archer said wearily.

"Very well." Phlox pocketed his instrument. "I've got to get back to Crewman Spencer's sprained ankle. If you'll excuse me…" With that and a small nod he left.

Trip had thrown the blanket aside and pushed to a sitting position, grateful that his balance was restored. Archer plopped down beside him.

"You gave us one hell of a scare," he croaked out. Grimacing, he shook his head and added softly, "This time I really thought you wouldn't make it."

"Malcolm…" Trip breathed out, closing his eyes against the memory of his friend raising a hypospray to his neck.

Archer heaved a deep breath. "He didn't suffer, thankfully. I am grateful for what he did."

Trip felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Not that you wouldn't have done the same for him. It was Phlox's choice."

Biting his lip, Trip nodded. He waited a moment, until the painful knot in his throat had somewhat loosened, before saying quietly, "Capt'n, I wanna thank you for bein' there for me. I wouldn't have made it without you."

There was a pause.

"I did nothing, Trip," Archer replied dismissively.

"Seriously, Capt'n," Trip insisted, turning his gaze to the compassionate green eyes of his Commanding Officer, "You don't know how much you helped. I was hearin' some pretty horrible sounds. Your voice kept me focused and fightin', kept me anchored." Unable to keep a slight quiver from his voice, he added, "If there had been silence I think I'd have caved in and died too."

There was another pause; this one longer.

"Trip, what are you talking about?" Archer finally enquired, in a puzzled voice. Suddenly he turned to the empty bench across from them, then back, wide-eyed. "Oh, hell… Trip, you don't mean to tell me that you think…" He grabbed him by the arm. "Malcolm didn't die. He's alive and well."

The words bounced around in Trip's brain for a moment; he blinked, afraid this might be a dream. But Archer was still there, his face softening into a warm smile.

"Alive?" he blurted out, his voice thin with disbelief and hope.

"Yeah. The Doc ordered him to his quarters. But I came by a couple of times and saw him: he was by your side almost throughout. And if you heard anyone talk that must've been him. No one else was allowed in here till Phlox came to take your blood sample, just recently."

Trip let himself fall back against the wall. "You've got to be kiddin'," he breathed out. "Then the treatment… the violent reaction…?"

"There was none, he was fine; something about his allergy shots immunising him against the counter effects." Archer smirked. "You were the one who got really sick. Phlox wasn't sure he'd develop the vaccine in time. Thank God he did."

Trip had been ordered to his quarters, but there was no way he would lock himself in his room without a small detour first. After all - he figured - as long as he was in _some_ quarters and not in Engineering it wouldn't matter _whose_ they were.

Malcolm opened the door bleary-eyed and out of uniform. He squinted against the brighter light in the corridor and took a moment to react.

"Trip…" he finally rasped. "You ok? Phlox let you out?"

The voice was definitely that of someone who had been dragged out of bed, but Trip was too happy to be worried about - or even sorry for - having woken his friend up. As he nodded, it struck him that maybe also something else made Malcolm sound as if he had swallowed a grater: the man had probably never talked so much in one go in his entire life. He couldn't help breaking into a smile.

"Mind if I come in a minute?" he asked, letting the happiness and relief, and a hint of amusement dance in his eyes.

Malcolm gave him a tilt of his tousled head and a questioning frown. Then his mouth curved up slightly too. "A minute? I believe I can grant you that, Commander," he said, recovering his poise and stepping aside.

As he walked in, Trip raised his eyebrows at the teasing in the tone and the grey eyes. Well, teasing it was then. "Did you enjoy your little hero stunt?" he asked, injecting the words with just enough sarcasm that it would be detected and resented. "You must've got that shot of adrenaline you like so much." He felt the man behind him stiffen.

"Trip, listen, I only did what the Doctor told me," Malcolm countered, in a voice that had suddenly acquired a tighter, defensive edge.

It was a naughty long moment before Trip turned to face him. "I've come to thank you," he said, mellowing. He took secret pleasure in watching the other man falter at the unexpected change.

But Malcolm quickly regrouped, quietly replying, "No need. You'd have done the same. Besides, in the end I was fine."

"Yeah," Trip agreed. "But that's not what I've come to thank you for."

Malcolm blinked, once again taken off balance. His smart little brain, though, figured things out pretty quickly.

Shrugging, he muttered, "You were sick." From the door, where he had remained, he took a few steps towards the centre of the room. "It was a small favour. Not a problem."

The grey eyes tried to shift away, but Trip captured them. "Knowing how much you like talking, it wasn't such a small favour," he said. "Not that I remember much of what you told me, but your voice kept me afloat, as well as some rather hair-raising sounds at bay."

"Hallucinations?"

"Sort of, yeah. Not much fun, believe me."

Trip bit his lip, acknowledging a feeling of discomfort that was all the more annoying in that it was quite alien to his nature. Maybe the fact that his energy was suddenly waning had something to do with it. The sheer joy of being alive and the relief that neither of them had lost their lives had kind of given him a false feeling of omnipotence, and now that it was passing he was beginning to feel sort of limp. But in fact, along with Phlox's predicted tiredness he was getting a few more memories of their stay in decon, and they were troublesome in more than one way. He cringed as he remembered some of the things he had said and done. First he had forced his need to talk on Malcolm; then he had antagonised him, bothered by the man's possibly reckless nature; and in the end he had showed him his fear, his weakness.

A clearing of the throat caught his attention, and he looked up to see Malcolm gesturing to his desk chair.

"Why don't you sit down, Commander?" Malcolm suggested with a touch of concern.

Trip realised he must look the way he felt, and grimaced. "There's no Commander, here, Malcolm, just another human being." _With all his flaws_, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to say it. "But no, thanks," he added, addressing the invitation. "I'd better go to my quarters. I've been ordered to rest. I'll let you get back to sleep." It was a half-assed excuse, he knew it; ironically, he was slithering out of a situation where he would have to _talk_; he wanted to be surrounded in silence. Rest right now sounded like a good idea; anyway, better than when Phlox had ordered it.

Something close to regret flitted across Malcolm's features. It was intriguing, but gone in an instant.

They walked to the door. Malcolm lifted his hand to the button, and it hovered there for a moment before falling back to his side. His brow creased slightly. "I apologise for the way I reacted in decon; you know, virtually telling you to shut up," he said without hesitation but not meeting Trip's eyes. "In the end a bit of talking wasn't such a bad thing. I suppose there are times when it's better to fill the silence and not heed one's thoughts."

What – had this close call made them come to see each other's point? Trip smiled inwardly. "Words are the physicians of a mind diseased," he suddenly found himself quoting, surprised himself that he should remember, out of the blue, something he had read in school.

Malcolm darted him a curious look. "Aeschylus, if I recall," he said, sounding impressed. His facial muscles tightened briefly. "If truth be told, after it was clear how serious our situation was, talking probably helped me as much as it helped you."

And what kind of a confession was that? Trip studied the rigid man beside him. "Are you sayin' that you were scared too?" he asked outright, too intrigued to play safe.

There was a pause.

"As hell," Malcolm replied tautly, still studiously avoiding his gaze.

"You did a good job of hidin' it," Trip huffed out. The other man suddenly turned to him with a direct gaze that was surprising, even if typical of his unpredictability, of his ability to turn, in an instant, from totally reserved to thoroughly transparent. What Trip read on his face right now was innocent matter-of-factness.

"I had to," Malcolm said. "I have to, in my profession."

Trip pinned him with a narrowed-eyes glance. "But you did more than hide your fear. You jumped at the opportunity to place yourself in danger: was it courage or something else?" He knew Malcolm would understand what he meant by that. He might not welcome the question, but Trip wanted to ask it. Indeed his friend crossed his arms over his chest, and his face became quite stern.

"Trip, forget what I said about the storms, and the fascination of danger," he said. "I simply did what I thought was my duty. Nothing less, nothing more. You may call it courage, if you will; although I don't much like the word - it implies an aura of heroism I'm not comfortable with when referred to my person. I'm no different from you; and in fact you were as willing as I was to volunteer as Phlox's guinea pig."

"I was willing; you were _eager_," Trip countered, not convinced. "There's a difference."

Malcolm took in a long-suffering breath and puffed it out. "Look," he went on, "I simply know when it's time to break free from fear's grip, get into action and take the bull by the horns, to use an expression you would use. And I do so with determination. That's all."

"I call that courage," Trip said. "_Reckless_ courage."

Malcolm shrugged. "I call it doing my job"

They looked at each other, Trip boring into the straight face before him, trying to understand if Malcolm's answer had been truthful; Malcolm undauntedly sustaining the scrutiny.

"Have I passed the exam?" Malcolm finally asked, with a witty lift of his eyebrows.

Trip smiled. "For the moment, Lieutenant. But know that I'll be keepin' an eye on ya."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Standing at attention in shorts and T-shirt, Malcolm hardly gave the picture of the perfect officer. Trip couldn't help chuckling.

"You'd better get that rest, Commander, before you incur Phlox's ire," Malcolm muttered. For the second time he lifted his hand to the button and this time made the door open.

Trip stepped outside. He turned to say goodnight. "If you admit that talking isn't all that bad… does it mean I'm welcome to come by for a little conversation once in a while?"

"If you really have to..."

"If I carried a bottle of somethin'?"

Malcolm jerked his head sideways, humour sparking in his grey gaze. "It would depend on what was in that bottle, I suppose."

"Leave that to me, Lieutenant," Trip said starting to take a few backward steps in the direction of his quarters. Stopping, he added, with a shrug, "Doesn't mean we can't also spend some time in silence."

"Me, you and a bottle?" Malcolm's smile even bared a few teeth. "Not a chance, Commander."

THE END


End file.
